


And Never Die

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Curtain Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8180042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Fëanor and Maglor, as they travel in the modern world.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Curtain Fic square in my Trope Bingo card.

The train pulled into the main station of the state's capital city just as the sun began to decline, the hour most favoured by the elves on board. Maglor stirred, stretching his long legs towards the seat opposite his, where his father sprawled, still gazing out of the window as he had for most of the journey. The doors opened, and the passengers, some of whom had been impatiently shuffling their feet for a while after standing up, began to trickle out of the train. 

Fëanor took out his cigar case from the internal pocket of his jacket and stood up only when the last passengers were dismounting, unhurried, untouched by the jittery haste of creatures who had but a wisp to live. He squeezed himself out of his seat, his legs brushing against the knees of the young man sitting next to him, who was evidently headed further south. He smiled at the mortal, who blushed and looked away. Maglor did the same. Train carriages were always cramped for them, and however much they would have liked to avoid any sort of physical contact, there was no way for them to. They strode to the doors, and got off while the in-coming passengers clustered around them to enter. 

They stopped in the middle of the platform, ignoring the crowd that passed them by, breaking around them like a wave on a tall rock. Fëanor took a cigar from his case, and fished out his lighter from the pocket of his tight-fitting jeans, his eyebrows knitting together in a forbidding frown that prompted a woman to hasten her step as he flicked it open. Maglor giggled to himself, and contemplated his father and lover while arranging his scarf loosely around his neck. With a black leather jacket and matching knee-high leather boots to frame his massive build, his father did look a tad intimidating, and if his frame should have failed to catch the eye, his hair-colour and gaze ensured that he would not go unnoticed. 

They passed for quaint foreigners wherever they went. They also looked unlike enough not to be taken as father and son, which did have its advantages. A stray lock which had remained loose when Fëanor had tied his hair was swept up by a sudden gust of wind and Maglor lifted his left hand to comb it back behind his father's ear. Their gazes locked for a moment, cosy in the fire they shared, then Maglor turned and headed towards one of the station's secondary exits.

They walked in silence along progressively dirtier streets towards the less glamorous areas of the town until they arrived at a shop which sold motorcycles, the sort of establishment where no questions were asked so long as cash was handed over. Maglor entered the shop, whereas Fëanor wandered further down the street in quest of food.

The transaction went smoothly enough – Maglor's voice alone could easily sway mortals, at need – and Fëanor was already there waiting when one of the shop's employees took the motorcycle in the nearby junk yard.

“I got the usual,” Fëanor said as Maglor came to sit next to him, lifting a small plastic bag from a tiny restaurant that also served warm dishes to go, a cigar stub at his feet. 

They ate in silence. Food was the one area of human inventiveness Fëanor appreciated the most. He had lost much of the respect he might have had for mortals a long long time before, on account of their inability to put their inventiveness into effective use in other fields. If he had had any say on the matter, everybody on Arda would have been sailing the sky with self-propelling machines, and there'd be no pollution to reckon with, for one. But he and Maglor didn't belong to the world of Men. They trod it as fleeting shadows, there one moment, gone the next. They were nomads, deprived of all possessions and love save the two Silmarils they had retrieved from the Valar thousands and thousands of years before, and each other. 

Long shadows crept up the dingy streets, ushering in unsavoury characters, when they were ready to leave. Or almost.

“One more?” Maglor said with some impatience as Fëanor pulled out his cigar case again. 

“Just this one.”

Maglor huffed and brushed past him. He sat astride the motorbike, in the back, peering at the darkening sky.

“Do you think we will receive any more visits from the Valar's emissaries?”

“Very likely,” Fëanor grumbled, grimacing as he put his lighter back inside his pocket. “They grow weak. They crave the Silmarils. Eventually, we will have to go back, but not before one of them comes here in person to beg a few times.”

He got up and straddled the motorbike in front of Maglor. “Where to?” he asked in between pulling at his cigar. “East or West?”

Maglor deftly unwrapped his scarf and wrapped it around his neck again, more tightly, catching his hair with it. It wasn't as cold here as further up north, but the wind would be unforgiving once they hit the open roads cutting through the high plateaus surrounding the town. He gave a low mumble, debating with himself. There wasn't a single place on Arda they hadn't visited, and for all that humans kept destroying and rebuilding, their cities and monuments always fitted into the same time-worn patterns. “West, for a change. We haven't been there in a while.”

Fëanor cackled and threw the cigar stub to the ground, snuffing it with the heel of his boot.

“To raggedy, creaky Europe then.”

Maglor tucked his father's ponytail inside his jacket, wrapped his arms around his waist and nuzzled his head on his back as Fëanor started the motorcycle.


End file.
